


leave a rose for what might've been

by waywardcherry



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardcherry/pseuds/waywardcherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is not much I can say. Only that this part of my dreams is coming true, I have the best woman in the world and I am dying tonight. I shall enter immortality at 8:25 this evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave a rose for what might've been

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt by [everythreewords](http://everythreewords.tumblr.com), she asked for something based on "Briane" by Boyce Avenue. I mixed it up with Patty Griffin's "(You are) Not alone" and _Evita_ , the musical.

It's funny how these things happen.

You hear the accounts, the clichés of how it's unpredictable, indescribable, numbing. There's no details, she and Rachel would pick those tragedies apart to the point where they'd sleep in separate bedrooms for a night because Santana couldn't fathom someone not being able to hear a fucking gunshot.

Sometimes things just... _disappear_. All she can remember are the lights and how they flickered and reflected on every surface. All the colors around her, especially red and blue flashing intermittently, and the black of someone's coat, a strong arm around her stomach holding her back as Rachel's limp hand slipped from hers—not before the eyes she loved most in the world looked back for a second, coupled with the saddest smile she'd ever seen on those lips.

 _Red_. A lot of red, _everywhere_. Around her, _on_ her.

But why can't she remember hearing the gunshot?

..

She goes through the motions.

Coffee at whatever time she can drag herself out of bed, something like cereal or whatever the fuck she will find ready on the kitchen counter (that's Quinn's doing, she never gave a damn about eating), eat three or four bites, make sure the curtains are still drawn all over the apartment, avoid reflecting surfaces, avoid tripping on Chistery, their—hers?—spotted Munchkin cat on her way back to bed.

She thinks briefly about the last time she fed him. _Briefly_. Because she knows Quinn must have. Her friend (and lawyer and sometimes _publicist_ , when they manage to find the dumbest breed of idiots to perform the job and she has to fire them) takes care of her and respects her space. Their parents know how to smother, especially Hiram, but Quinn knows how to handle her—and them.

Their— _her_ —room is the darkest spot in the house. That's somehow comforting, it's ready to embrace her back to slumber. What's _not_ comforting: tripping over Chistery on the doorway. That moron barely has legs, at least it's good for her—he can't hop on the bed and taint the spot where her smell still lingers.

"Fuck you," she rasps and crawls back under the covers, eyes already closed.

Things that are fresh on her mind:

Burning a stack of bridal magazines. Opening her closet just a crack, in the dark, to feel for another pair of pajamas. Telling Quinn to fuck off about four times. (Apologizing for only two.) Tripping over Chistery on her way to the kitchen as well. (Not apologizing to that dumb idiot at all.)

Even so, all of these things happened yesterday. Or maybe the day before. The klonopin is fucking with her memory, but it gets her to sleep so fast it's beautiful. It makes Quinn and her phone calls go away, the overwhelming absence in her bed seem like—

And it's time for another pill. Her movements are not quite right yet, what with the antidepressants and painkillers to deal with everything that happened two weeks ago. The bandage on her left hip was removed yesterday—courtesy of a second degree burn from a bullet that grazed her skin. (She's always thought they cut or caused a rash, not that they burned and left scars that would never be completely hidden.) It doesn't hurt like it did at the hospital, but the codeine tabs are right next to the klonopin ones and it's just so _easy_.

What's not easy is to swallow them dry. She tries to feel for a glass of water she's sure is there somewhere. (Turning on the lamp will just make her stare at that framed picture of a crying Eva Perón on curtain call, one hand to her mouth, another holding a bouquet of red roses, watery eyes saying a silent 'I love you' to the camera on the front row; the picture's a tad blurry, she wouldn't stop crying herself, but out of all the memories that pepper the apartment, that one is the worst, because it's them in the most intimate of ways.) A couple of items get knocked over, _of course_ that glass of water is one of them. She turns on the lights and the carpet's soaked, water still dripping from the edge of the side table.

The books above the drawer can't get wet—that doesn't mean they aren't resistant, either. She slides them away from the wetness on the dry carpet and they end up all over the place. At least they're safe. She just didn't count on so much shit being under there; the water manages to get the corner of a notebook whose pages are not really stuck to the binding, they spill corners out of the covers as if they didn't belong there.

She sits up slowly, shakes the dripping water out of it and puts it in front of her. She doesn't remember this ever being here at all. Come to think of it, they held on to so much crap she'd easily find her thigh highs behind the Blu-Ray player.

No more water, the pills can wait a fucking second.

The cover is simple, dark red leather, a cursive R engraved in the corner. For someone who avoids even saying the name, opening this is—

Pages.

Beige, white, _wet_.

Crimped in spots, blurring the letters, hardening the paper under her fingertips. That's the result of wetness that didn't happen today. Those are scattered around the pages she flips through, some of them blank, some of them with chunks of text completely struck out, though she can still make out what's underneath.

Pages upon pages of just Rachel.

..

_"I don't expect my love affairs to last for long, ~~never fool myself that my dreams will come true~~..." They did!!!!!!!!!!! _

_Jun 23, 2020 ~~Pearl Theatre Company~~ WINTER GARDEN THEATRE!!!_

_.._

_Descamisados: Descami ssssssados._

_Rio de la Plata: ahhhhhh._

_Florida: FLO rida, like RRRRRio and corrientes. (ask Bobby!!!)_

_Nueve de Julio: nuebe???_ _and HUlio, not Hulioh. (again, ask Bobby)_

_P.S.: Mr. Schuester continues to ruin my life. My Spanish is atrocious._

_P.S.2: Santana won't help, either. Her pronunciation is not as good as her mother's. Oh, forget Bobby_ — _I need to get Maribel on the phone, STAT._

_ CALL MARIBEL LOPEZ AFTER REHEARSALS ON FRIDAY!!! _

_.._

_I need to add MADONNA to that list. What does she have to call Frank for? It's not this beautiful production's casting director's fault that I haven't dyed my hair yet._

_I had such fond Madonna memories, not anymore._

_When Patti LuPone herself calls, we'll talk. (she's adorable, I met her. Do you hear that Madonna? Patti LuPone gave me a green light when I was a nobody. What has she done for you?)_

_No offense intended. THIS IS NOT GOING ON MY MEMOIR. Must tell Santana not to include this part._

_.._

_August 12, 2020: I hate you. Everything hurts. Who knew the First Lady of Argentina had to dance so much?_

_(I did.)_

_.._

_Santana bought me hair dye. Let this day go down in History: my girlfriend of five years, who has had two number one albums but still eats olives out of a can, has bought me boxed hair dye for my first dress rehearsal._

_Meanwhile, Katy Perry is getting $800 haircuts to look exactly the same and I, Rachel Berry, just presented Chistery with a custom made bowl that doesn't bother his neck while he's eating (he's short, poor thing, and likes to lay down on the floor while he eats and I support his choices). I'm sure it cost at least eight times what she spent on this box._

_Santana Lopez, I refuse to look at it._

_I wrote that on a post-it and stuck it to her breast. She tried to curse in Spanish and it was adorable. Three months into the rehearsals for this production and I know more about her family's language than she does._

_I love her. But I will not use that on my hair._

_.._

_Sep 18, 2020_

_This is the day the props department stops scrambling for a decent, First Lady of Argentina engagement ring because I now have one to rival Princess Diana's._

_Santana, my girl, my life. She knows how to win me over. Not that I wasn't before. Barring the hair dye debacle, I would've married her if she'd given me a pebble. There is just no one I love more._

_.._

_Is this a diary?_

_.._

_I should make a to-do list._

  * _~~Funny Girl~~_
  * _~~Evita~~_
  * _Oklahoma!_
  * _~~get engaged~~_
  * _have adoring fans. (No, I'm not jinxing myself) Oh screw that, ~~people adore me~~_
  * _get married in June, preferably in Hawaii_
  * _have wonderful, well-mannered children_
  * _teach Santana good manners_
  * _~~love her for the rest of my life~~_ _(this is a no-brainer)_
  * _(and an EGOT, if at all possible)_



_I should also follow that guide when putting my memoir together. Note to whoever is reading this: one, that wasn't very polite of you, and two, assorted paged could be used as amusing anecdotes and/or introductions to its many chapters._

_.._

_Nov 26, 2020._

_This is a strange day._

_"Requiem aeternum dona Evita, requiem Evita..."_

_These are not words you expect to hear while walking down the street. A month from today, the show opens. I should be happy._

_But I'm scared._

_.._

_"For someone on top of the world_  
_The view is not exactly clear_  
_A shame you did it all at twenty-six._

 _~~/////~~ _ _~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~ ///"_

_I'm only twenty-five..._

_.._

_I haven't left the house in two weeks. Santana's away filming a video in Canada. She doesn't have to know. I asked them for a week off, they gave me two as an appreciation of my commitment to the project. In seven days, it's opening night. I can't say I am terribly excited._

_I was barely twenty when played the role of my dreams. I was Fanny Brice for two years, until I felt it was better to take a break and follow Santana around the world than burn out that quickly. ~~I was tired.~~ I was exhausted. To watch my love hear from others what we've been telling her for years was an invigorating experience. Every time she shoots to the top, I still get that rush. I've never met anyone so deserving of success. ~~Even though I~~ (okay that's horrible of me, where's my liquid paper?)_

_The truth is, I'm scared. Terrified. I'm certain the show will run smoothly and it will be terrific. I've been with it long enough to be sure my castmates, the production and the orchestra will come together as one._

_It's what waits for me outside that has me here in bed, covers up to my chin, writing on these pages and occasionally examining the split ends of my now-blond hair. I still can't get used to it._

_Am I being mistaken for somebody else? If it's not a disembodied voice in the streets, it's a note under my ~~dsesss~~ dressing room at the theater, or a text message from an unknown number. They all tell me ominous parts of Eva's fate in the play, black ink on red paper when it's handwritten._

_Have I gotten myself my first stalker? If I did, I don't enjoy it as much as I thought I would. Take me back to McKinley where ~~nobody liked me bu~~ I was somewhat of an outcast but nobody cared enough to threaten my life. Slushies were easier to handle. _

_I can't tell anyone. Nothing's going to happen._

_.._

_high flying adored so young the instant queen a rich beautiful thing of all the talents a cross between the fantasy of the bedroom and a saint  
DID YOU BELIEVE IN YOUR HIGHEST MOMENTS THAT YOUD BECOME THE LADY OF THEM ALL???_

_~~/////~~ _ _~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~   ~~/////~~_

 

_.._

_There is not much I can say. Only that this part of my dreams is coming true, I have the best woman in the world and I am dying tonight, on the same day of the month Eva did._

_I shall enter immortality at 8:25 this evening._

_.._

_Dear Santana, my love, my all, the bane of my existence, my reluctant captive, my personal hero,_

_As I sit here, donning the costume of my last performance, I am strangely peaceful. I don't know what will happen, or how it will happen. I just know something will. And I hope I can get to look at you and you understand why I couldn't tell you. I'm not exactly sure on the why myself, but... I had to do it. This is my dream. I need to go on that stage and see how proud you are of me. I saw you and Kurt next to my dads, front row, opening night, and I still don't buy that it was the lighting in "My Man" that made you cry, or how heavenly that black dress made my butt look. It was ME. I moved you to tears and you were proud of me. You helped me when I was lost and misguided, you held my hand, you hugged me, you browbeat me into getting back to my life's purpose. That night, I saw you cry proudly as my friend. And every production afterwards, you were there the entire first week, crying night after night, no matter where our personal relationship stood or how excitingly turbulent your career was. Tonight, you are going to see the woman you want to marry achieve her biggest dream. There is no way I'm denying myself or the person I love most in this world that._

_You will see me shine. That's how you'll remember me._

_You will find someone who's worthy of your stubbornness, support, dedication and, most of all, your love. For now, I am that person. As of tomorrow, the search continues. You will never give up on love._

_You will think of me, but we're so young to stay where we are, dwelling on what could've been done. I don't know who's after me or why. I just know tonight is my last on this earth. And I want to be holding your hand when I go._

_This is not over. YOU are not over. Don't disrespect me like that, don't waste yourself on my memory. Look into my eyes as I get your beautiful flowers, feel the applause with me, whisper quietly that you love me and I will whisper it back._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

_Rachel Berry_

_.._

_The choice was mine and mine com_ **pletely  
** I could have any prize **that I desired  
** I could burn wit **h the splendor of the brightest fire  
** Or else—or e **lse I could choose time  
** Remember **I was very young then  
** And a year was f **orever and a day  
** So what use could fi **fty, sixty, seventy be?  
** I saw the lights and I wa **s on my way**

_And how I lived! How they **shone!  
** But how soon the lights were **gone!**_


End file.
